


just sing along, i'm the king of catastrophies

by notthebigspoon



Series: down here in the atmosphere [3]
Category: Baseball RPF, Warrior (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter's always been awkward. He was awkward before he was dubbed one of the Awkward Brothers. So it really shouldn't come as a surprise when his first date with Angel ends in complete and utter disaster.</p><p>Title taken from The Science of Selling Yourself Short by Less Than Jake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just sing along, i'm the king of catastrophies

As far as first dates go, Hunter and Angel's is a complete and utter disaster.

It starts out well enough, leaving the park together and going to Angel's favorite steak house. The food is good and they talk easily. In spite of Hunter's general awkwardness and social ineptness, with someone like Angel, who can talk for himself and everyone around him, he can be reasonably charming, or so he's told. That, or people just find his nerdery endearing, he's not sure.

When they got to dessert, though, that was when things started going downhill. They got the bombe Alaska, which Angel swore he had to try and that they fired up right at your table. An overeager fan pounced on them, bumping the cart the bombe was on and dumping it all over Hunter. The truly unfortunate part was that it was still flaming, causing _him_ to catch fire. The fan screamed and dumped water all over him, head first.

First date with the man he's had a crush on since he was traded and he ends up covered in dessert and soaking wet with a first degree burn on his arm. Someone somewhere well and truly hates Hunter.

The restaurant gives them their dinner on the house, the manager apologizing so many times that Hunter can pick out a pattern and starts muttering it along with him. He shucks his soaked button up and heads out into the night air to wait for the cab that they had fallen over themselves to call when he'd asked them to. Angel follows him, waving off the manager and saying that he knew it wasn't their fault, things were okay and yes he'd be back, they could make their own way from there.

When they're finally left alone save for the people that pass by on the sidewalk, shooting them curious looks, Angel bites his lip and plants his hands on his head, shaking it slowly. “I am so, so sorry. This...”

This was a disaster and Hunter should have expected as much. He doesn't say it, just offers Angel an awkward smile and a shrug. “S'okay man. One of those things, right?”

“Right.”

He looks like he wants to say more but before he can, the cab pulls up to the curb. Angel steps forward, shuffling his feet and looking uncertain. Hunter shakes his head, sighs as he opens the door, telling Angel over his shoulder that he'll see him tomorrow and good night before lowering himself into the cab. Angel shuts the door and taps the roof twice.

The glass of the window is cool and soothing against Hunter's forehead. He closes his eyes.

***

The next day, the first thing he does when he gets to the park is to seek out Groeschner. He explains what happened, leaves out the part where it was a date, and lets him look at it. It's nothing, really. Very red and it hurts when he moves but minor, nothing that he can't work through. They put him through the paces on the field just to be cautious. He performs to their satisfaction and swears again that he's good for the game. They really can't afford to do without him, not right now. He's cleared for the game.

It's really not much of a problem, nothing that a little burn ointment and wrapping doesn't help. The sleeve of his undershirt covers it up. He dresses early, before very many people arrive, keeps it covered up so they won't ask questions. Angel tries to track him down more than once but something always seems to prevent it. It doesn't really bother Hunter that much. He doesn't know what to say to him.

They could try again. Maybe, unless last night was a death knell and Angel thinks they're doomed as well. Being set on fire is surely some kind of sign. Every time he looks at Angel, Hunter swears he smells meringue and burning rum, not to mention that his arm hurts. Right. Doomed. Probably best forgotten.

The only time they communicate is on the field, signals and nods. When they jog back to the dugout, Angel bops him with his glove as usual. When they win, they do the jump and Angel pats him on the back, giving him another apologetic look when their arms bump and Hunter flinches. He showers and dresses, talks to the press when he needs to. They're focused on Pagan's incredible performance, it makes it easy for him to slip out the door with Belt, Crawford and Theriot.

They've barely made it out the player's entrance when there's a loud shout of, “Hey Pence, you _suck_!”

They cringe and Theriot puts a hand on his back, shakes his head and tells him to ignore it. Hunter though, he just grins. Because he's heard that before and he knows that voice. He doesn't know how they got back here and he doesn't care, because Frank is grinning and Tommy is smirking. It's been less than a month but they were the best friends he had in Philadelphia and he's _missed_ them. Frank hugs him first and then he hugs Tommy by force, laughing when the man mutters and swears under his breath about touchy feely bastards.

“Shut up, you love it. When the hell did you guys get here? Why didn't you say anything?”

“Thought we'd try and surprise you.” Frank says with a laugh. “Looks like it worked. We got here top of the second. Think Tommy ate three boxes of garlic fries.”

“Can't stick something like that under my nose and expect me not to eat it.”

Hunter doesn't realize they’re being watched until Belt clears his throat. He grins, turns and gestures at them. “Oh, right, sorry. Uh, this is Brandon Belt, Brandon Crawford and Ryan Theriot. Guys, this is Frank Campana and Tommy Riordan. Conlon. Whatever he's going by these days. I trained at Frank's gym when I was living in Philly. Tommy hung around cause he had a crush on me.”

“Aw fuck you.” Tommy mutters, punching his shoulder. “Could kick your ass with one arm tied behind my back.”

“You're that guy from Sparta, right?” Theriot asks. He looks a little star struck.

“Yeah, and you're that guy that got your ass handed to you in a bar.”

“Yeah, that'd be me.” Theriot answers, smiling wryly. “We should get a beer sometime, I can tell you what I remember about it.”

***

In spite of the losses, the next two days are the happiest that Hunter's had since joining the Giants. They take in the sights during the day and Frank and Tommy attend both games. After the games they hit the town and Sunday night it's with Theriot and Crawford in tow. Theriot challenges Tommy to a game of pool, Tommy makes a crack about his brain damage and says he's on. Crawford hangs around as a spectator.

Hunter gets beers for himself and Frank and they get an out of the way table where they can still see and hear what's going on at the pool table.

“So who you avoiding Pence?”

“... nobody? I'm right here?”

Frank smirks, that infuriating one that says you're full of shit and he will get you to tell him the truth even if you say he can't. Hunter hates that look. But he also knows when he's not going to win so he sacrifices his pride sooner rather than later.

“I had a date Thursday night. With Angel, the center fielder. I know Tommy pointed him out to you.”

“I'm taking it it didn't go well?”

“Didn't go well?” Hunter asks, snorting. “Frank, it was a disaster of epic proportions. Some crazy fan hit the cart the dessert was on trying to get ahold of us. It was bombe Alaska, sort of like baked Alaska but on fire and it got all over me. I was literally on fire, it burned my arm before the crazy bitch dumped water all over me to put it out. It was just. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.”

“A sign of what? That some of your fans are crazy? We already knew that. We still get them coming into the gym looking for you, even though they know you were traded.” Frank shrugs. “Not seeing how that's the guy's fault.”

“It's not. But...”

“But?”

“It was _humiliating_. I was covered in a dessert product, I looked like a drowned rat. It was a very nice restaurant and I had to take my shirt off in front of all those people because that's where most of it was and. Just.”

He doesn't say anything else, just pinches the bridge of his nose before resting his forehead in his hand. Frank just sighs and pats his shoulder, silently drinking his beer while Tommy and Theriot swear at each other. True to form, though, he only gives Hunter so long to wallow in his own misery before he's nudging him with his foot.

“Call him.”

“What? Right now?”

“Right now. Call him, ask him if he wants to try again and meet him for dinner somewhere.”

“But you and Tommy?”

“Will be fine with Crawford and Theriot. You're off tomorrow, right? We'll meet up again for lunch or something and Tommy can try to get the dirty details out of you.”

Hunter sighs and thinks about arguing but the truth is that he doesn't really want to. He wants to make things work with Angel but it was embarrassing and he still thinks that it's some sort of sign that things would end in disaster. He thumps Frank on the back and says he'll see him tomorrow. He doesn't bother saying good bye to the other three, their pool game has also turned into a drinking game and they're all a little drunk.

He waits until he's outside and already walking down the street to take his phone out and dials Angel's numbers. It rings four times and just when he thinks he's being ignored, Angel answers the phone, sounding breathless and a little annoyed.

“Who is this?”

“Um.. Hunter. Pence.”

“I know your last name.” Pagan mutters. Hunter already wishes that he hadn't called. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For avoiding you. It's just that that was kind of humiliating and I figured that if I, y'know, got set on fire then it was probably a bad sign except Frank told me that it wasn't _your_ fault I was on fire and I know it wasn't but-”

“Hunter. Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm going to make this less painful for you. Are you suggesting a do over?”

“Yes! Yes. Exactly, a do over.” Hunter answers, not caring how eager he sounds. “Um. Tonight. I was hoping. If you're not busy.”

“I do not think you can count watching Blanco strike out as being busy, so. Text me the address where you want to meet. Perhaps pick something with minimal risk of you catching fire again. I will see you soon.”

“Yeah, soon.”

When they hang up, Hunter texts him the name and address of a burger joint a few blocks away from where he is now that he'd tried during the last home stand. Hopefully, if he keeps this simple, it won't blow up in his face this time. Angel texts an affirmative with a smiley face tagged onto the end. Hunter jumps, whooping loudly, and offers a startled old lady a deranged grin before taking off at a jog.

Flaming desserts be damned, he's not going to screw it up this time.


End file.
